Pattens Of Behavior
by AriesTaurus
Summary: He knows it's wrong, but he won't break the pattern. Written for Numb3rs 100 Pattern challenge on LJ, posted there a while back but expanded an compete here! Warning: drug use


It's wrong.

He knows that. He's tried to stop but it always comes back; the urge, the absolute need. Not only is it wrong, it's illegal.

He knows all that. It's not like it makes a difference. It's not like he can stop doing it. He'd have to stop thinking about it too and that, he can't do. He'll stop thinking probably around the time he stops breathing.

It's like most things in life and in nature. It's a pattern, ingrained in years of habit and self-indulgence. It's become his pattern of behavior.

He sometimes wonders why no one has figured it out, why no one asks questions. How can his brain work so fast, on so little sleep all of the time?

The simple answer is; it can't. He figured that a long time ago, after crashing hard despite massive amounts of caffeine. He'd almost failed, for the first time in his life. He'd sworn it would never happen again.

Charlie knows it's wrong, but he doesn't care. As long as he keeps it a secret, it won't be a problem for anyone, least of all him. He's too cautious with the dose and quality.

He carefully aligns the fine white powder on the mirror, shaking his head at the cliché. What the heck. It really does work best. He picks up the delicate straw, bends down to the table and snorts the line in a well-practiced motion. He leans back and waits for the hit.

The clatter of something plastic on the floor shatters his moment, annihilating his high.

He looks up and freezes.

He's in the kitchen door, the expression of shock on his features so complete it's laughable.

Charlie doesn't laugh. It's the end of the world.

"Don."

And just like that, the pattern is shattered.

Don pushes the kitchen door silently open, pulling his cell from his belt in a practiced motion, his fingers hovering over the speed-dial keys. He lifts his eyes from the screen when he catches a flash of movement from the sofa. The house is supposed to be empty. His dad's in San Diego and Charlie's teaching a class on Wednesday afternoons…

The sight in front of him completely short-circuits his thought process, bringing everything to a screeching halt.

Charlie!

His cell drops to the floor, the clatter of the contact with the hardwood shattering the silence.

A flash of adrenaline skitters down his spine. It's the bad kind of adrenaline; fuelled by fear and anger. He has to be wrong. This had to be something else. He _**has not**_ just seen what he thinks he did.

His eyes scan the table of their own volition, taking in the bag of white powder, the small scale, the mirror, the razor blade and the straw still clutched in his brother's hand.

"Don."

He stands frozen, completely locked in place by a sudden, violent inner war.

He can't un-see this.

This can't be happening.

He can't do *nothing*.

It's his brother.

The bag on the table is at least…

It isn't what he thinks this is. It can't be.

Possession with intent.

Charlie.

Felony drug charge.

He can't.

He *has* to.

It's his little brother.

Arrest him.

HELP HIM!

Charlie's sudden bolt towards the door finally jostles him out of his fugue. He crosses the living room in two swift strides and grabs Charlie's wrist before he's reached the front door, his grip tighter than any cuff could be.

"No! Let me go!" Charlie pleads.

Don lets the anger show through. "Don't make me cuff you," he growls, putting every ounce of threat he possess into his voice. "Sit down," he orders, dragging him back to the sofa and sitting him down exactly where he'd been not a second ago, not letting go because the moment he does, Charlie will bolt again.

He licks the tip of his finger and touches it to the fine dust still on the mirror and puts it to his tongue. The taste is wrong and there's only a hint of tingle. Not cocaine, then.

"What's this?" he snaps.

Charlie's face stays downturned, silent.

Don slams his palm on the table, his other hand still tightly gripping his brother's wrist. "Answer me!" he yells. A cloud of whatever crap this is spreads from the table upward, dislodged by his violent outburst. He turns his head and tries not to breathe any of it in, his eyes pinning Charlie as surely as his hand.

"You're hurting me!"

"ANSWER ME!" He screams, spittle flying into his brother's face. And just like that, Charlie caves.

"It.. it it... it's a mixture of amphetamines and... cocaine."

The anger in him suddenly deflates and he lets go, Charlie crumpling into the couch in a miserable pile. He doesn't know what to say, where to begin. The risks of it alone... He doesn't know what to say, what to do. He flops to the couch, next to his brother.

"Charlie..." The word just falls from his lips, the single utterance filled with all the emotions he can't voice; despair, disappointment, fear, disgust, rage, concern.

"It's... not what you think."

"No?" he snaps, getting off the couch to tower over his brother.

"I'm not... I don't get high. It's not about... pleasure... I... It helps me focus."

Don lets his head drop. "Next you're gonna tell me you can stop whenever you want?" he asks softly, already knowing the answer. "Do you realise I can't close my eyes and pretend I didn't see this? That I have to arrest you?"

"This isn't..."

"It's a federal crime, Charlie. There's enough on the table for it to be considered possession with intent to distribute. That's ten years in a federal prison, Chuck. Ten. Years."

"You don't understand, Don. I need this! I can't... I can't function like you need me to, like the rest of the world needs me to, without it."

Don sighs, rubbing his eyes hard before running both hands over his face. He has a decision to make. He *can* take the bag and dump it into the toilet, flush it away and turn his back, pretend he didn't see. Hell, he's done it before. Every agent he knows has; turned a blind eye for family, shrugged off something minor or not quite so for the sake of loved ones.

"You're right. I don't understand. Thing is, I don't think you understand either," he says. Charlie hasn't seen the damage those drugs do up close. He has no doubt his genius brother thinks he's being careful, that he's in control. He also has no doubt it's just an illusion. *He* knows what an arrest will do to his brother's career, to his reputation, his self-esteem, to their father. To him but he doesn't care about himself right now. He also knows how else this could end.

He can't let it happen.

He reaches behind his back as he moves towards Charlie.

"Get up."

Charlie's still too in shock and subdued to realise what he's doing and he thanks god for it. It takes half a second and he's got Charlie against the couch, an arm behind his back and a second more before the cuff slaps onto his brother's wrist.

"Hey! Don wha-"

"Save it," he says, grabbing Charlie's other arm as he starts to fight back but he's no match. He never was. Charlie has no idea just how much he's been holding back in their adolescent-reminiscent rough-housing in the last couple of years. He's a seasoned FBI agent, working violent crimes. He's taken down the badest of the bad.

He pushes his still struggling brother towards the door and his SUV, keeping himself focused as best he can.

"You're arresting me?" Charlie protests, outraged.

Don stays silent as he marches him to the SUV. "Haven't read you your rights, have I?" he says, pulling the back door open. "Get in."

"No."

"Get it," he growls. "Don't make me force you in there," he presses, because he damn well will if he has to.

His brother gives him a belligerent look but complies. Once he's settled in and belted up. Don shuts the door and heads back to the house to clean up. He disposes of the stuff in the living room and barges into Charlie's room, completely unbothered. He shudders and chuckles when he opens a drawer filled with Amita's stuff.

Crap. Amita. He pauses but shakes his head hard.

That's his brother's mess. He can clean it up.

He finds the stash easily enough, shaking his head again. His brother may be a genius but he's never had any street smarts. He wastes no time in disposing of it, too. He packs a bag for Charlie, grabbing his toiletries from the bathroom as he flushes away the rest of the white powder.

He's rushing down the stairs and back to his SUV before he's fully decided what he'll tell the team, his dad, Charlie's colleagues, his boss... He rubs his forehead, the budding headache there suddenly becoming ferocious. This is going to be one hell of a headache, in more ways than one.

He sighs and opens the back door opposite his brother, throws the bag in and shuts the door before his brother has time to protest.

He leans against the truck and pulls out his cell.

"David. I'm going off the grid for a while."

"OK. No. He wasn't home," he lies. "I'll send him your way if he calls me back."

He hangs up and turns off the cell before clipping it back to his belt. He drops his head and sighs before taking a few deep breaths. He's bracing for the fight ahead but he already knows he'll win. He won't accept any other outcome. He shakes his head and grabs his cell again. There's another call he needs to make. That done, he climbs into the driver seat and starts up the engine, turning on the A/C full blast. It's already pretty hot in the black SUV.

"I should have put the air on as soon as I put you in here. I'm sorry," he says quietly as he heads out onto the calm Pasadena streets. He's on the highway soon and still his brother hasn't said a word.

L. A. is starting to fade behind them and Don's had about enough of the silent treatment.

"Charlie. You gonna have to speak up sooner or later," he says as he points the SUV towards the Malibu exit and the Santa Monica Hills.

"I'm not going to rehab. I heard you. I don't need to go. I'm fine. You're just blowing this all out of proportion. Besides, I have to admit there's a problem for me to even have a change and I can't admit to something I don't have," Charlie declares passionately.

"If you don't have a problem then why have you thought about it? Cause you clearly have," he replies calmly, watching his brother's eyes in the rear view mirror. He sees the blooming panic and the fear there, clear as day.

"Don. Please. Please don't do this," he pleads as the truck begins to slow down. He pulls to a stop in front of what looks like a secluded Spanish villa. Don unclips his seatbelt and turns to face his brother.

"Look, Charlie... I... I know you don't think this is dangerous but... Please. Look at me. You know what I do. You saw what I see. A piece of it, at least. Just... trust me when I say this isn't what you think it is, that you don't control it, that it controls YOU. And... God knows I feel responsible for pushing you and... Charlie, you're my brother and I love you and I don't care if we never work together again or if you don't publish as much or..." He exhales and rubs his face, mainly to try and contain the tears he can feel burning in his eyes. "I'll be damned if I'm going to let you do this to yourself. I'm not gonna wait for you to be ready to see it or for you to O. D. Okay?"

He locks eyes with his brother, begging him to agree.

"No. I... I can't... I don't..."

"I destroyed your stash."

He watches the fear and rage wash over Charlie's face. His brother's emotions are always so clear, so easy to read. He wonders why he didn't see this before, how much damage has been done, if maybe this is the last time he speaks to his brother because if Charlie says no, there's no way he'll just stand there and watch till he self-destructs. He feels like he's igniting a match standing in a pool of gasoline but there's no turning back. He steels himself and speaks again, putting as much conviction behind his words as he can.

"This is the only chance I'm giving you. I have five weeks of accumulated leave time and four weeks' vacation. I'll spend every single hour on you so you'll either have to buy the drugs to my face and have me arrest you for real, or go into withdrawal on your own. I'm offering you a choice, Charlie. Please, just do this. For yourself. For me. For dad. How do you think he'd react if he'd been the one to find you?"

"You're going to tell him anyway."

"Not if you don't want me to."

Charlie tilts his head and looks at him askance, not understanding. "If... If I stay here..."

"I'll tell them you're on a classified assignment. My security clearance might not be as high as yours but it's still high enough to make it happen if I have to."

"How-"

"I have a lot of favours to call in and I'll owe a few people till I die but I. Don't. Care," he says pointedly. "You know I'm right. Deep down, you know I am."

"This place is-"

"Don't bring money into this. It's taken care of," he says, knowing where this is going but still praying like hell Charlie will say yes.

"How?"

"A favour."

"Don. You can't—"

Charlie's tone is desperate and there are tears in his terrified brown eyes. He reaches a hand to him, clasps his shoulder although he's wrenching his own to the point of pain.

"It's okay Charlie. You'll be okay. I know you can do this. You can do anything you set your mind to."

"I..."

Don holds his breath, heart beating so hard he can feel in into his toes.

"Okay."

He closes his eyes and breathes in deep. In a second, he's out of the truck and at the back door. The seatbelt is wrenched off and Charlie's out. The cuffs come off and he engulf his little brother in a bear hug, holding him tight, shaking with relief, fear and maybe just a hint of desperation.

"C'mon. They're waiting for you," he says eventually, pulling away.

The sun is setting when Charlie walks back into the foyer. He drops the paper he's been re-reading for the past four hours and grabs Charlie's bag from between his feet.

"Ready?" he asks as his brother stands in front of him.

"No. But that doesn't matter. It's something I have to do."

Don nods his head towards the man who did him a favour, thanking him. "I'm glad. I'm sorry about the cuffs."

Charlie smiles wanly and Don pretends not to see the tremors in his hands. "There's a saying that Amita really likes. Math is like love; a simple idea but it can get complicated. Besides, brute force can be a useful mathematical tool."

Don lets a half smile creep onto his lips. "That your way of telling me I'm forgiven?"

"I just hope you can forgive me."

"Just get better, Chuck. I'll be back in a month to get you."

"Tell Dad... tell him that I..."

"I'll tell him you got yourself in trouble and that you're sorting it out."

"Tell him why."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Honesty is the first step to recovery, or so they tell me."

Don hears a throat clear behind his brother and he knows it's time to go.

He grabs his brother into another quick hug, squeezing his shoulder.

"Take care, Chuck."

"Don't call me that."

Don smiles and turns to leave, nodding. "See you around, buddy."

He makes it to the dark interior of the SUV before his knees give out. He slams the door shut and buries his face in his hands, all the emotions he's been holding back coming to the surface.

He hasn't cried in years, not really, but he can't hold back the tears and the chocked sobs that are building. He leans forward and rests against the steering wheel and simply lets the tears come, letting them drain away the tension and the fear.

The knock on his window startles him about as badly as a bomb going off, his hand going straight for his holster.

He lets a rare curse slip from his lips as he recognises the man standing outside his SUV. He brushes an arm over his eyes and nose. He thinks briefly of his mother and hears her scolding him for wiping his nose on his shirt sleeve and his heart aches all the more.

He opens his door and steps out, nodding. "Dr Bradford."

"I'm sorry I startled you, Don. I just came to see if you were okay."

Don bit his lip and nodded slowly. "I'm okay, kind of. Terrified but okay. How's Charlie?"

"He's settling into the detox wing. He's in for a rough few days."

"Thank you for taking him."

"I'd say my pleasure but I won't. He'll get through this but you know this is a fight he'll have to fight all his life."

"I know. I should go. I need to talk to my dad and Amita and..." He sighs, suddenly overwhelmed by the chaos suddenly left behind in Charlie's wake. And now, he's the one that has to deal with it all.

"Don't forget to take care of yourself, Don. And, my door is always open."

Don chuckles and turns back to his SUV. "I'll keep that in mind."

Thirty days later

Their reunion is quiet and subdued, if joyous. Charlie looks good, better than he's ever seen and again he can't understand why he didn't see it before. His brother is still fragile and full of shame but he's clean and Don doubts he'll ever relapse. One thing his brother is usually very good at is not making the same mistake twice. He's a genius after all. The drive is quiet and they're both okay with that, Don thinks. There are things to fix between the two of them but for now, they're content to share the sunset and the day of reunion.

He watches as Charlie's engulfed into their father's arms, as his dad tells Charlie that it's okay, that all that matters is that he's better and they'll deal with the rest soon enough. Amita's there too, subdued and unsure but smiling. Don doesn't know if their couple will survive this but he's decided to be hopeful. Larry's beaming of course but he's also the only one who dares scold his brother for the scare he caused all of them.

He's content just to stay here, leaning against his truck, and watch the reunion. He knows Bradford would have something to say about that, about him taking on the responsibility of guardian again, keeping himself on the outside.

This time, he'd disagree. He's not the guardian, tonight.

Or maybe he is. He doesn't care. For the first time in a month, the world feels right to him and that's all that matters.

Fin


End file.
